Recently I witnessed another act of violence in prison. A young man – younger than me anyway and I’m almost thirty-five – beating up an older man who was every bit as old as sixty, but maybe even older. And the whole thing disgusted me so much, that afterwards, as a former Marine, it made me sick with myself that I hadn’t done anything to help him.
The older man, though, he had heart, and at one point in time must’ve been a force to be reckoned with. I watched as he held his own for quite a while, standing his ground and swinging with direct and calculated movements, body poised in a perfect boxer’s stance, ducking and weaving, ducking and weaving. And each hit he landed upon the younger man was carried out with such speed and gracefulness and such seemingly crushing delivery that for a moment I’d actually thought the old timer was going to come out victorious.
But the younger man was … well, the younger man was just younger, faster, stronger, more ruthless and definitely intent on crippling the old man, on making him bleed, and on proving his own heartlessness. He ultimately overcame the elder man by grabbing him by the hair of his head, gouging a thumb into his eye, and toppling him to the ground with a sweep of his foot. Once there, the older man didn’t stand a chance and was repeatedly kicked by the younger man as he lay on the floor and unsuccessfully struggled to shield his face and his groin from the damaging blows.
Moments later, I found myself standing just to the side of the now ending conflict – suppressing my rage and rationalizing to myself my reasons for not intervening – as the demoralized and ragged sexagenarian was half carried away, shaky and unsteady, by his equally as old companions, runnels of ichorous crimson-y blood streaming from his nose, and a deep gash zigzagging across his lip.
At the same time, the younger man was raising his arms in the air as if he were some kind of a champion and giving his friends dabs as if the defeat of the old man were something to be proud of and not the despicable act of violence in prison that it actually was. Then it was over and everyone dispersed. Myself included.
Later that afternoon, I learn that the younger man owed the older man some money but had been intentionally avoiding repayment. Then, when the older man had mentioned it to the younger man – and as so often happens in prison over a monetary issue of any kind – a fight ensued, initiated by the younger man after he threw the first punch and told the old man he had no plans of paying him back.
This is how prison is everyday. And I hate it. I feel like it’s killed my soul, and made me someone I can no longer stand looking at in the mirror, someone infinitely more broken than the person I was before I came in, void of the confidence and hope in my fellow man, and myself, for that matter, that I once knew. Someone who would stand by as an elderly person is beat up right in front of them and do absolutely nothing to help them. And it makes me sick.
The old me, the Marine, would have done something. But what am I to do? At the end of the day, I realized that had I stepped in to help that old man, I’d have only made myself a target. That youngster was a known gang member, and though I am confident in my ability to defend myself, I know that once I beat up a gang member, that eventually I will have to fight everyone in the gang. Or even worse, they might just decide to kill me. And that’s something I can’t risk for a stranger in prison. Old man or not.
Still, I know I’ll live with the look of that old man’s bruised and bloodied face on my conscience for the rest of my life and think about how he was probably someone’s grandfather, father, husband and friend, and know that I could’ve helped him. But didn’t.
Charles Davis has been released from prison and is thriving in his new life.
